I stood in a puddle, copper
wire twined round
my fist, vined down my
arm, and sought to
conjure some false
spirit with a jar of
fireflies, an old key, a
wisp of your hair.
and
when the bolt shot
I felt nothing but
ensconced in deaf
air, unsinged,
a permutation
of static
yet,
overhead
the memory of
thunder.